Angel of the Morning
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley has no problem borrowing Aziraphale's clothes. But when Aziraphale borrows something of his, Crowley gets a little unnerved. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Makes reference to Missing, where Crowley borrows Aziraphale's coat to take a nap.**_

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley wanders, eyes shut, out of his dark bedroom. He shuffles into the living room, then his office, each room brightening gradually as he transitions from no windows, to black-out curtains, to windows with shades drawn and a thin, pastel light streaming through.

"A-zir-a-phale," he sings around a yawn, but he's not searching. He knows where his angel is. He _feels_ him – a golden beacon to his unholy soul. Aziraphale is out on the rooftop terrace, tending to a garden that was once Crowley's and hidden, its inhabitants cowering inside in indirect light, but now theirs and thriving outside beneath the sun and sky.

He's been out there for at least an hour.

Crowley won't admit to liking it, this pocket-sized Eden Aziraphale has created, complete with a fruit tree smack dab in the center. It's not an apple tree, but a lemon tree, its presence tongue-in-cheek – not so much a nod to their origin story but a commentary on Crowley's temper. And even though Aziraphale often uses it as the punchline to many a joke at Crowley's expense, Crowley loves it.

He's loved it from the first moment he set eyes on it.

In fact, his love of the thing causes it to bloom year round.

And that, in no small way, infuriates him.

Birds stop by every morning to keep his angel company with their airy songs. A family of geese actually calls the place their summer home. And like a proper fucking Disney movie, there's even a den of rabbits. He suspects Aziraphale smuggled them up here, but at this point, anything's possible.

That's one of a dozen reasons why he loves Aziraphale living with him.

When his angel is around, anything seems possible.

The garden isn't all that high up, but a simple miracle tones down the drone of traffic from below, and thank Heavens for that seeing as the world is in relatively full swing for 7:38 on a Wednesday morning.

"You're out an' about early, aren't you?" Crowley mutters, puttering through the grass barefoot, navigating up to his angel using every sense minus his eyes. As far as his brain is concerned, it's only slightly after midnight, he and Aziraphale have just polished off a bottle of Pavillon Rouge, and in fifteen minutes or so, they'll indulge their buzz, make-out to keep it simmering, and climb into bed, wrapped in one another's arms.

He hasn't the heart to tell it the truth.

"Am I?" Aziraphale asks, back turned and head bent, focused on packing peat around the newest shrub he's transplanted – another brown-and-yellow rescue from the _near dead _section of their local nursery, the _only_ section Aziraphale seems to know exists at Clifton and Alexandra's Plant Emporium. When Aziraphale saw it tucked in amongst the desiccated twigs and greying dregs of roses that the nursery's owners have the steel balls to claim as _salvageable_, his eyes lit up. He rushed over to it as if it were a newborn baby. Crowley doesn't understand what Aziraphale sees in those flat-lining plants he adopts. Part of his sleep-addled brain believes Aziraphale might see a certain foul-tempered demon in those neglected plants. And whereas it warms Crowley to think that Aziraphale _wants_ to spend the remainder of his immortality nurturing a damaged demon, he doesn't know how he feels keeping company in his angel's heart with the odd bedraggled begonia and ghoulish plumeria.

But as far as Aziraphale's newest acquisition is concerned, Crowley has to admit it looks much revived in the whole of twenty hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds that Aziraphale has owned it, each coo that passes his lips turning another curled leaf a lively moss green.

"How much longer are you planning on staying out here?" Crowley asks, prying one eyelid open, then the other, lowering himself to one knee and hooking his chin over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I don't know." Aziraphale raises an arm to wipe his brow, then shifts to stretch his back, carefully so as not to dislodge his demon. "It's a fine morning, but I really just wanted to see this little guy comfy in his new home. After that, I was thinking about …"

Aziraphale's explanation cuts short when Crowley takes his chin in his hand and repositions his face, turning it toward him for a clearer view.

"What are you _wearing_?"

Aziraphale raises a brow at his demon's switch in tone. He doesn't sound angry. More confused … and concerned. "You're going to have to be more specific, my dear. I have a lot of things on."

"Did you borrow a pair of my sunglasses?"

Aziraphale's mouth drops into a surprised 'o'. "Yes, my dear. I do more than you think. You're just never up this early to see it."

"Why in the world would you do that?"

"They're just sunglasses, my dear."

"Maybe, but I don't think I'm comfortable with you wearing them."

A laugh explodes from Aziraphale's mouth. "Ha! You _hypocrite_! You borrowed my coat for a nap not a week ago! And last night, my shirt!" He gestures at Crowley clad in a pair of black lounge pants and a pale blue shirt two sizes too big. Crowley wraps his arms around his torso, hugging the garment defensively.

"It's softer than mine," he says.

"It's not even a pajama shirt! You're sleeping in clothes that were never meant to be slept in! And wrinkling them horribly, I might add."

"They smell like you. It's not the same."

"Fair point, I suppose." Aziraphale shakes his head at his absurd demon. "I guess I _could_ go out and buy myself a pair, but I'm rather fond of yours. You have several lying around. I didn't think you'd mind. But if it bothers you that much …" He raises his hands to remove the frames from his nose.

"Don't ... don't take them off," Crowley says, catching his hands. "I don't mind you borrowing anything of mine. Really. You _should_ wear them. They look good on you."

Aziraphale's eyebrows lift as his eyes behind the dark lenses widen with delight. "You think so?"

"I do. Honestly. I guess the idea of you hiding your eyes … unnerves me."

"I'm only hiding them from the sun, my dear."

"I know that. But when I saw you wearing them, and I didn't expect to see them on you, I thought that maybe you'd …" Crowley drops his own eyes, conceals them behind closed lids as if he'd only now become aware of them.

Aware of their serpentine appearance.

Aziraphale crooks a finger beneath his chin. He succeeds in raising the tilt of his head, but not his eyelids. "Yes?"

"I thought maybe you'd fallen. And you didn't want to tell me."

"I think you'd have found out eventually," Aziraphale teases.

"I know that. It still … it …"

"Frightens you?"

Crowley sighs. "A little."

"My dear boy …" Aziraphale moves his hand to Crowley's cheek. Gently, he runs the pad of his thumb over his lips, inviting a kiss, which Crowley gives him "… we've been together a while now and I haven't fallen yet. Personally, I'd like to believe we have nothing to worry about."

"I _always_ worry. Day and night. Big worrier, me. It's in my nature."

Aziraphale leans forward and gives his demon a kiss on the cheek. "I know it is."

Crowley nods. He opens his eyes. He slants his head left and right, observing Aziraphale with a thoughtful expression. He reaches for the glasses. "I think I'd like to make a little change to these, if you don't mind."

"They're _your_ glasses, my dear. Be my guest."

Crowley takes the glasses off Aziraphale's nose. He flips them swiftly end over end, transforming them, then shows them to him.

"Show off," Aziraphale mutters, but grins when he sees how they've changed – the style of the glasses exactly the same but the frames a snowy white, the shields along the sides a glittering gold in place of silver, the lenses opaque by virtue of a dazzling pearlescence, and a small set of angel wings imprinted on the lower right-hand corner of the right lens.

"There." Crowley slips the glasses proudly onto his angel's face. "I think that suits you better. Less jarring at the very least."

"I think you're right. I thank you for your generosity." Aziraphale takes Crowley by the hand and pulls him in for a _real_ kiss, a polite but passionate press of their mouths together … accompanied by a mildly more naughty nibble of his lower lip that makes Crowley moan.

"On the matter of generosity, angel," Crowley whispers with a suggestive growl, one that Aziraphale assumes is meant to lure him back to bed, "you're not getting your shirt back."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, glancing at the shrub beside him as if expecting it to concur with him over the ridiculousness of his demon. "I didn't think I was."


End file.
